


Additude Adjustment

by thecarlysutra



Series: Discipline [2]
Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Discipline, Ice needs to chill out, M/M, Power Imbalance, Spanking, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: Ice finds himself feeling reckless, and asks for help. What he receives is a little more than he’d bargained for.<br/>AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for the <a href="http://top-gun-kink.livejournal.com/">Top Gun Kink Meme</a>.  A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/312977">A Little Discipline</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Additude Adjustment

  
Ice went straight home after Jester dismissed him. He felt surreal, detached; he knew he must have driven home, but had no memory of the car ride.

Ice walked to the bathroom at the far end of the apartment. He turned on the light and looked at his reflection in the mirror. There was no evidence that he’d been crying, no tear tracks or red eyes. If anything, his face was paler than usual. But he did look different; his face was open, unguarded. It made him look younger, he thought.

Ice undressed. He angled himself so he could get a look at his backside in the mirror. He was red, and there were already bruises coming up on his seat.

They would be gone within a week. By that time, Maverick was back at TOPGUN, failing to engage and blowing up at his RIO. Ice found him in the locker room and tried to say something to talk him down, but commiserating and providing comfort had never been strong suits of his. He walked away before Maverick turned around, before he could make things worse.

Slider caught him in the hallway.

“Hey, buddy, y’hear? Maverick’s out! We’re number one for sure.”

Frustration nipped at Ice. He’d wanted to be Top Gun, wanted it so bad, but not like this. He wanted to go face to face with Maverick and beat him on merit, not by a technicality. Now he would never really know which of them was better; he would spend the rest of his life wondering if he was only the best by default. Ice wanted to scream; he wanted to punch a wall until his fists were bleeding and raw.

And then he had a better idea.

“I’ll see you later,” Ice said.

Fear bubbled in Ice’s gut as he knocked on the doorframe to Jester’s office. The door was open, and Jester was sitting and his desk; really, Ice could have just walked in, but somehow, he felt he needed to be invited.

Jester looked up from his paperwork. “Come in.”

Jester watched Ice close the door with some amusement, but no comment. Ice came to within a foot of Jester’s desk, and then stood at attention.

“At ease, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

“Sir, I was wondering if you remembered our conversation the other day.”

“Which conversation, son?”

Heat spread over Ice’s cheeks. “The one about my discipline problem, sir.” Jester didn’t say anything, so Ice added, his blush glowing hotter, “The one where you bent me over your desk.”

The corner of Jester’s mouth turned up. “Yes, Lieutenant, I remember.”

“You said . . . you said that I could come back anytime, and you would . . . you would give me that kind of help again.”

“Yes, Lieutenant, I remember.” Jester regarded him gravely. “Is there something you’d like to ask me?”

Ice swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir, I was wondering if you would be willing to . . . to discipline me again.”

Jester just looked at him for a long moment. Ice stood still, feeling his heart jackhammer in his chest.

“Of course I am,” Jester said finally. “Now isn’t a good time, however; would you be able to come to my house tonight?”

Relief and fear in equal parts flooded Ice’s veins. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

Jester scribbled an address on a piece of paper, and handed it across the desk to Ice. “Seven PM, sharp.” He gave Ice a heavy look. “There will be consequences for being late.”

Ice folded his hand around the paper. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Seven PM,” Jester said again. “Sharp.”

***

Ice was late. He had actually arrived early, but then sat in his car until 7:15, torturing himself about whether or not to go in.

Jester lived in a small house on base, a modest but well-kept one-level. Once Ice finally worked up the courage to knock on the door, Jester let him stand on the stoop for a moment, sweating. When Jester finally answered the door, Ice was surprised to see him in khakis and a polo shirt; until now, he’d only seen him in his uniform.

“You’re late,” he said.

Ice swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir.”

“I believe I said there would be consequences for tardiness, did I not?”

“Yes, sir, you did.”

“All right. If you accept that condition, and you still wish to proceed, come in. If not, you can walk away right now, no harm done. This will be the only time I extend that offer; once you enter this house, your punishment is completely up to me, and dragging your feet or talking back will only result in me being harder on you.”

Ice stepped inside.

Jester closed the door behind him; Ice felt his stomach sink. Jester’s eyes were on him; Ice felt the gaze like a physical force.

“I can get you a drink, if you want,” Jester said. “Or we can skip the pleasantries and get down to it.”

“Let’s, uh—let’s do that.”

Jester nodded. “Good boy. Come on.”

Ice followed Jester to the living room. It was a normal setup: couch, TV, some nondescript art on the walls. Except the coffee table didn’t have coasters or a remote or a _TV Guide_ lying atop it. Instead, there was a black leather paddle, about the size and shape of a ping-pong paddle, and a short, thick strap with a forked tongue. Ice stopped in his tracks, all the breath going out of him.

Jester stopped beside him, resting his hand on the back of Ice’s neck. His voice was flat, unemotional.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s time for your punishment.”

Jester sat in the middle of the couch. Ice followed, stopping in front of him to wait for orders.

“Take down your pants and underwear, and then lay across my lap.”

Ice undressed slowly. He was nervous, but his hands didn’t shake. He let his pants and underwear fall around his ankles, and then leaned over Jester on the couch. Jester helped position Ice over his lap. Ice felt extremely vulnerable, his face pushed into the couch cushions, his naked ass in the air, his soft penis between Jester’s thighs. Jester placed his left hand on the small of Ice’s back, pinning Ice to his lap. He rubbed the rough palm of his right hand over Ice’s bare butt.

Jester waited a moment while Ice found a good position, resting his weight on his forearms, which brought his head up and his face out of the cushions. It didn’t much help ease the feeling of vulnerability, though: this was how he’d been spanked as a boy, ass bare, draped over his grandmother’s lap. Just being in the familiar position was enough to make him feel small, controlled. He felt his eyes start to tear and he took a long, deep breath, trying to steel himself.

The breath was pushed out of him when Jester brought his hand down, hard, on Ice’s ass. The sting of the slap had barely sunk in before the next one fell, reigniting the pain, adding to it. Jester found an even tempo, as steady as a heartbeat, landing hard smacks all over Ice’s ass, the backs of his thighs. Ice winced, and tried not to squirm; it hurt so bad, more than he remembered—it always hurt more than he remembered. Ice felt his flesh heat beneath the pain, like this was alchemy, a chemical reaction changing his body into something else.

Jester paused a moment, rubbing the heel of his palm over Ice’s sore backside. It almost felt good, almost soothed away some of the pain, but it was only a moment, and then Jester started up again, three sharp smacks all in the same place, the tender spot on Ice’s upper thigh just below his ass. Ice couldn’t help himself; he writhed in Jester’s lap, pushing helplessly against Jester’s hand holding him down. Jester retaliated, spanking the same spot harder and harder until Ice cried out.

Jester rested his hand over the spot, which was practically glowing with pain.

“You will stay still during your punishment,” he said.

Ice shook, and when he finally found his voice, it was small. “Yes, sir.”

Jester leaned forward, reaching over Ice, his large body pressing down on Ice’s. For a moment, Ice was confused, and then Jester was rubbing the smooth leather of the little paddle over Ice’s sore backside, and he understood.

The paddle was a different pain. It gave less than Jester’s hand, and the pain was less sting and more deep in the muscle, like pressing on a bruise. Jester applied it steadily, and the pain mounted, settling deep in Ice’s flesh. Soon each blow was pushing a moan from Ice’s throat, creating an uneven harmony—the crack of flesh being struck, followed by the low note from Ice’s chest. Ice felt the blood rushing to his face; he was embarrassed for Jester to hear him crying out, but he couldn’t stop.

The beating went on a while, until Ice was breathless, until he was limp and compliant over Jester’s lap. After a while, Jester removed the hand anchoring Ice to his lap, but Ice just held himself in position, because Jester had told him to stay still. He could get up, he thought, and walk away, but Jester had told him to stay still. Ice thought about what they meant when they talked about breaking wild horses, and he lowered his head; he felt like that, servile, weak, like something inside him had given.

Finally, Jester put the paddle down. For a moment, he rested his rough hands on Ice’s burning backside, just rested them there while Ice got his breath back. Then he patted Ice’s hip, and spoke.

“Stand up.”

Ice climbed off Jester’s lap, and waited for the next order.

“Undress.”

Ice didn’t really understand, but he did as he was told. He removed his clothing, folded it neatly, and set it down on the coffee table. Then he stood, nude, before Jester, folding his hands demurely before his sex.

“Hands by your sides.”

Ice felt his blush darken, but he moved his hands. “Yes, sir.”

Jester stood. He spent a moment studying Ice, his eyes traveling his naked form. Ice bore it, a strange feeling seizing him—it wasn’t lust, or embarrassment, but dominion. He felt completely subjugated, owned. He understood, with a strange calm, that anything Jester asked him to do, he would do.

Finally Jester did give him an order, nodding at the coffee table, the strap lying atop it.

“Pick that up.”

Ice picked up the strap. It was heavier than he’d initially thought, stiffer than a belt. He fingered the split tails, rubbing the leather between his thumb and forefinger.

Jester stepped toward him, so they were less than a foot apart. “Do you know what that is?”

Ice shrugged. “A strap.”

“It’s called a tawse. They used to be used to punish Scottish schoolboys.”

Ice relaxed a little; if a schoolboy could take it, certainly it wouldn’t be a problem for him. “Why’s it split like that?”

Jester smiled. “You’ll find out.” He held out his hand, and Ice placed the tawse in his palm. “Bend over the arm of the couch, legs shoulder-width apart.”

Ice did as he was told, positioning himself over the arm of the couch. A wave of embarrassment hit him; he realized how exposed he was, legs spread, bare ass up in the air. He heard Jester moving behind him, then felt Jester’s fingers trailing over the curve of his ass.

“This is your punishment for arriving late,” Jester said, and Ice mentally kicked himself for every second he’d spent dragging his feet. His ass was throbbing already, and Jester was going to add to the pain because he’d let his nerves get the better of him. So stupid; he deserved whatever was coming. “How late were you, do you remember?”

“I . . . fifteen minutes, sir.”

Jester tapped the tawse in his palm. “Fifteen doesn’t seem like enough, does it, boy?”

“I—no, sir,” Ice said, because it was the only correct answer.

“How about three strokes for every minute you were late? Does that seem fair?”

Ice’s stomach dropped. That was forty-five. Fuck, fuck; his ass hurt so bad he didn’t know if he could take one more stroke, let alone forty-five.

Still. He’d brought this on himself; he deserved it.

“Yes, sir.”

Ice waited, breath trapped in his chest, listening to Jester position himself behind him, waiting for the first stroke to fall. But it didn’t.

“I’d like you to count these aloud,” Jester said.

“Yes, sir.”

“If you don’t count a stroke, neither will I,” Jester warned. “I’ll keep giving it to you until I hear you say the number. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Let’s begin.”

Ice flinched as he heard the tawse whistling through the air, and then he felt a stripe of fire burn across his ass, the pain so sharp he wondered for a moment if the blow had broken the skin, because it felt wet, the pain was so keen and concentrated. A raw cry tore from his throat.

Shit. How was he going to take one more of these, let alone over forty?

It was then he remembered he was supposed to count.

“One,” he said, and he didn’t even recognize his voice, so small and bare.

That horrible whistle again, and then an explosion of pain. Ice could feel the outline of the tawse throbbing over his flesh, and he understood why the strap’s tail was split: the worst pain was in the thin slit separating the two tails. Ice’s hands balled to fists, clutching desperately at the couch cushions.

“Two.”

Jester brought the tawse down again and again, all over Ice’s ass and thighs. He layered the stripes over each other, which was the worst thing: where they overlapped formed a nexus of pure pain, x marks the spot. Ice could feel his muscles quivering, and he was glad for the couch holding him upright; he wasn’t sure if he could have done it on his own.

“Thirteen . . . fourteen . . . oh— _ohhhh_ —fif-fifteen . . .”

In the mid-twenties, Jester began chastising him, his voice level and quiet and incessant beneath the cadence of the tawse whistling through the air and cracking across Ice’s ass.

“I want you to realize that this is your fault. You’ve earned every stroke; you have no one to blame but yourself.”

Ice kept counting, even as he felt the hot wash of tears coursing over his face.

“Thirty-six . . . thirty-seven . . . thirty-eight . . .”

“It’s only been a week since I disciplined you last time, and here you are, back beneath my hand. You’re a bad little boy, aren’t you? You needed someone to take you over their knee and spank you, didn’t you? You’re weak.”

Ice sobbed, glad he could hide his face in the couch cushions. Jester was right; he was weak and he needed this. And he was sorry. He was very, very sorry.

Ice cried so hard he missed the count, and Jester brought the tawse down again, harder this time, hard enough to jog Ice’s memory. He took a deep breath, composed himself. Maybe Jester was dishing it out; maybe Jester was disciplining him like a child. But he was taking every stroke, taking everything Jester gave him.

“I’m not weak,” he said. “Forty-two, _sir_.”

Ice waited for the next blow, but it didn’t fall. He listened for Jester, but there was just silence.

Finally, Jester spoke. “No, you’re not weak. Asking for this took great strength. You’d rather take the pain than risk being dangerous. You’re a good boy.”

Ice stopped crying. Even through the pain, he felt calm, grounded, all of the wildness pumping through his blood from earlier expelled.

“Three more,” Jester said.

Ice braced himself. “Yes, sir.”

Jester didn’t flinch giving him the last three lashes: they hurt as badly as any before them. But Ice bore them better, taking them quietly except to count them.

Ice stayed in position, watching out of the corner of his eye as Jester laid the tawse back on the coffee table. His ass and thighs throbbed; now that the lashes weren’t being applied fresh, he could feel how deep the pain had set in; his ass felt like a nest of bruises.

“Stand up. Face me.”

Ice did as he was told, wiping the remnants of tears off his cheeks. He snuck a hand back to rub at his tender ass, but Jester let it pass without comment.

“Go down the hall, third door on the right. Lay facedown on the bed.”

Ice’s brow creased; he’d thought the punishment was over. But he did as he’d been told, walking slowly in deference to the pain. His ass felt swollen, the skin over it stretched too tight; he rubbed it as he walked, which helped some, even if it did make him feel childish.

The third door on the right was a bedroom. Ice hadn’t been told to turn on the light, so he didn’t; he found his way through the dark to the bed in the middle of the room and lay down on his belly. The comforter was soft beneath him, and he closed his eyes and let his muscles relax; he wanted to close his eyes and drift off to sleep, just like he’d done after spankings as a child.

After a while, he heard Jester’s footsteps. He opened his eyes but maintained position, wary. Jester turned on the lamp on the bedside table, and then went into the connected bathroom. Ice heard him rifling around in there for a while, and then the mattress was dipping with Jester’s weight.

Jester’s hands brushed lightly over Ice’s ass, then withdrew. A moment later, something cold, slightly wet spread over Ice’s sore flesh—Jester was applying something, a thick cream, to Ice’s ass. Ice tried to relax. The cream actually felt good; he could feel it loosening the over-taut skin, cooling the terrible heat. But at the same time, the action itself made Ice feel vulnerable, and his instinct was to fight it, to fight giving in.

But if he hadn’t submitted to Jester earlier this evening, he might be doing something reckless now, bloodying his fists on walls . . . or Maverick’s face. Sometimes surrender was the best thing.

So Ice lay still as Jester rubbed the cream over every inch of Ice’s abused ass and thighs. And he lay still when Jester’s slick fingers slid into his crack, one hand spreading him open, and the other rubbing against the sensitive flesh. Jester’s oily fingers rubbed over Ice’s hole, and Ice’s breath caught in his chest. He knew Jester was waiting for his permission: what happened next was up to him. He had been with men before, though Jester was far from his type, though he was almost always in control—he had only ever been on the bottom after a long time in the relationship. He had never given himself on the first date; he had always waited until he was absolutely sure he could trust his partner. Still. A part of him wanted to surrender to Jester, just as he had for the spanking; a part of him wanted to give up control and let Jester use him in any way he wanted.

Ice pressed against Jester’s fingers. Jester worked one finger inside Ice, then another, stretching the tight muscle. Ice rocked himself back onto Jester’s fingers; he started coming up to his hands and knees for better leverage, but then Jester took his free hand and placed it on the back of Ice’s neck, pressing his face into the comforter. Ice relented. He had given his consent, and that was the last time he was going to be consulted about what went on here. And he was fine with that; what he wanted was to surrender, and that was exactly what Jester was going to take from him.

Jester moved his fingers inside Ice, and Ice tried to lie still, but soon found himself moving his hips, trying to angle Jester’s fingers to his prostate, trying to rub his burgeoning erection against the comforter. In response, Jester removed his fingers, taking all of the sensation away. Ice thought for a moment that that would be it: he had misbehaved, and would be getting nothing. But then the blunt head of Jester’s cock was pressing against him, and Ice wasn’t really ready, but what happened here wasn’t up to him, so he tried to relax as Jester entered him. It was painful, and he moaned, low, as he felt himself stretched and filled. Jester still had Ice’s face pressed to the mattress as he began to move inside him, and Ice felt completely dominated, barely able to move in response to the touches—just receiving.

And the thought of being so vulnerable had, in the past, terrified Ice, but in this moment, he felt a freedom and a clarity nearing what he felt in the cockpit, the only place he had ever felt at home. And as Jester rode him, really pounding him into the mattress, Ice found himself, impossibly, laughing.

***

Afterwards, Ice asked for permission to clean himself up. Jester looked surprised, but pleased, and granted his request. Ice caught a glimpse of his abused backside in the bathroom mirror. It was much worse than last time, the skin wine-colored and bruises like dark storm clouds amassing on his seat. He could see in several places the shape of the tawse outlined in red.

Ice returned to the bedroom to find Jester under the covers. Ice slipped in beside him, carefully resting himself on his belly—it was going to be a while before he could stand weight on his backside. Jester smiled knowingly, like that same thought was going through his own head, and slid his fingertips through Ice’s short-cropped hair.

“Feel better now, boy?” he asked, his voice almost soft.

Ice smiled. Despite the pain, he felt loose and languid, and, impossibly, completely in control of himself.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”  


  


  


  


  



End file.
